


Small Kindness

by Elsajeni



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Community: hobbit_kink, Friendship, Gen, Imprisonment, In which Legolas isn't the heir, Mirkwood court politics, Off-screen Character Death, Thranduil's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:51:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsajeni/pseuds/Elsajeni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fili gives a little snort, as if he doesn't believe that, but he doesn't press any further, either. Instead, he hands the crumpled note back through the bars and says, "Burn that, will you? And..." Another moment's pause; then the dwarf seems to make up his mind. "And come back and speak to me, if—"</p>
<p>"If I hear any more word of your uncle," Legolas finishes for him.</p>
<p>Fili grins, teeth glinting white in the darkness. "If you've a mind to," he says, "news or no news."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Small Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a hobbit_kink prompt:
>
>> While the Company are held in Thranduil's dungeon, Legolas is unwilling to go against his father's decision but softens when he notices that the two youngest seem overly panicked by separation and either intercedes on their behalf or carries messages between them. Maybe he stops and talks with them, harmless anecdotes about weapons training or growing up in a royal line, etc.
> 
> http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/3138.html?thread=4010818#t4010818 

"May I see them?" he asks impulsively — stupidly, really; prince or no prince, one does not interrupt the Lord of the Greenwood, and the look he gets from his father is poisonous.

"What for?" Thranduil demands. "What business can any son of mine have with that dwarf rabble?"

To be honest, Legolas isn't sure himself what put the idea in his head; he's never seen a dwarf, it's true, but nor has he ever been curious to see one before now. But it's too late to take it back, so he spreads his hands, all innocence, and says, "My lord, may a son not wish to admire his father's prizes?"

Admiration, at least, is something Thranduil approves of. So that evening, with his usual complement of guards and servants, Legolas is guided through the dungeons, doing his best to look awed as the warden boasts of the information he's gotten out of the dwarves.

Eight dwarves fill one wing of the prison, ranged across the cells so that no two of them are immediate neighbors ("Don't need any plotting in the night, do we?" is the jailer's explanation). At each cell, the warden bangs on the barred door, shouts at the dwarf inside to present himself for inspection; most of them respond with little more than a glare or a rude gesture, though a few cooperate, standing and stepping closer to the bars.

"We ran out of room up here," the warden says when they come to the end of that hallway, "but there are four more" — one level below, as it turns out, and once again spread apart from each other. The first of these behaves very like those above, but in the second cell they come to, the dwarf is curled on his cot and doesn't answer at all when the warden shouts at him.

Legolas studies him for a moment — he looks much like the rest of them, nearly indistinguishable to an elf's eyes, except for his yellow hair — then turns to the warden and asks, "What is the matter with this one? Is it ill?"

The warden narrows his eyes. "Malingering, more likely," he says, and reaches for his keys. "You just wait here, your lordship, I'll teach it some respect."

The dwarf does react to that, at least; he turns his head toward them, fire in his eyes, and says in a low, rough voice, "You don't frighten me."

"Oh, very bold!" The warden laughs. "You should have heard it scream and squall, your lordship, when we brought it down here apart from the others. Let's see how quickly you start your screaming again, shall we, little one?"

"No need for that," Legolas says quickly; the warden still moves to unlock the door (and Legolas doesn't miss the way the dwarf tenses, or how he holds his right arm close in against his side), but stops when he adds, "I would not like to see any of them damaged. Nor would my father, I think."

That seems to dampen the jailer's enthusiasm altogether. The rest of the tour is hurried and sullen, and then Legolas is shooed back upstairs to his chambers.

He sits and thinks a while; the image of the yellow-haired dwarf (frightened, hurt, separated from his companions, but still spitting defiance) lingers in his mind. After perhaps an hour, he makes up his mind and stands, gathering paper and a thin stick of charcoal.

There is a back door to the prince's chambers, one his guards don't know about; he suspects even Thranduil might not remember it exists. It opens onto a hidden tunnel, built, presumably, in earlier times of danger and forgotten during the long years of peace in the Greenwood, that connects back to the palace's main hallways near the kitchens; from there, it's easy enough to make his way quietly, stealthily, back down to the dungeons, to the cell of the yellow-haired dwarf.

* * *

He hasn't entirely thought out how he'll approach the dwarf. In fact, to be perfectly honest, he hasn't entirely thought out _any_ of this. In the end, he decides to start with a gift — an apple, pilfered from the kitchens as he passed — which is how he finds himself in a dim dungeon tunnel, leaning close against the metal bars of the cell, whispering "I've brought you something" and feeling somewhat ridiculous.

"Who's there?" the dwarf answers in an undertone; there's suspicion in his voice, not that that's surprising. "Is that—" He's at the bars, one hand reaching out and brushing Legolas's elbow, and then he jumps back and doesn't finish the sentence.

"It's all right," Legolas says, anxious, "just keep quiet, the warden's nothing compared to what we'll both get if I'm caught down here. Are you hungry? I've brought you an apple."

There's a long silence, and then the dwarf says, "A mad elf. I'm being visited in the night, in a dungeon, by a mad elf, and it wants to give me an apple."

"If you don't want it I'll eat it myself," Legolas says, but he holds the apple out between the bars, and after a moment the dwarf takes it and shoves it into a pocket of his long coat. "Listen, when the warden brought me here earlier—"

"That was you?" the dwarf demands. " 'Your lordship'? A mad elf _noble_ , Great Mahal, it gets better and better—"

"Your arm," Legolas continues, ignoring the interruption, although the dwarf keeps muttering as he talks, "is it badly hurt? I could have healers sent to you — to all of you, I mean, but from what I saw, the others are unhurt."

That silences the dwarf, as completely as if he's been struck dumb. "All of them?" he says at last, and his voice is harsh, urgent. "Are _all_ of them unhurt?"

"As best I could tell," he answers, knowing it's not the reassurance the dwarf might have hoped for. He had guessed, already, that this dwarf must have a kinsman or a particular friend among the eight held upstairs; this reaction makes him certain, and he dares to ask, "Who is it you worry for?"

The dwarf doesn't answer. Dark though it is, Legolas can see him glowering, see the distrust and concern warring on his face as they must be in his mind. Eventually he takes pity on the dwarf and holds out the charcoal and paper, reaching through the bars of the cell. "Here. Write a message, and tell me who to carry it to."

"You really are mad," the dwarf says, but his tone is more admiring than alarmed, and he takes the writing supplies and retreats to the other side of his cell, beside the single dim lamp.

Legolas watches him work for a moment, the charcoal pencil scratching. "I'll have to read it, mind," he adds as an afterthought, "so don't write it in dwarf-runes."

The dwarf pauses, scratches out the few words he's written so far, and begins again. After a minute or two, he says, "Mad elf. Do you have a name?"

"Not one that you can write in that note," Legolas says, mildly alarmed. "If your friend is caught with it—"

"He won't be," the dwarf says firmly, "but I didn't intend to write it down, either. I simply like to know whose help I'm accepting."

"I see." He considers it for a moment, then decides to go with honesty. "I am called Legolas."

"Well met," the dwarf says with a nod, and then adds dryly, "In a manner of speaking." He makes a final mark at the bottom of the page, then stands and crosses over to the bars, holding out the note and pointing to a single dwarf-rune at the bottom. "I know you won't be able to read it, but this isn't anything secret; it's my name-mark. Without it, he wouldn't believe it was from me."

"And who is it I'm taking this to?" Legolas asks. "How will I know him?"

The dwarf smiles, for the first time. "My brother. He's slighter than me, and dark-haired, and he hasn't much beard — he's very young. If you have trouble finding him, his name is Kili."

"Kili, dark-haired, not much beard," Legolas repeats. "I shall bring him your letter, and tell him that you're not badly hurt, if I can. And I will try to persuade my father to send you healers."

He turns and leaves, and if he hears, behind him, the dwarf repeat "Your _father_?" in an incredulous tone, he does not react.

* * *

 _This mad elf says he will bring you a message,_ the note begins; Legolas can't help a stifled laugh when he reads it, halfway up the dungeon stairs. The rest of the note, though, is more what he expected — the yellow-haired dwarf writes that he is all right, and that the three others held with him are unhurt, and he asks after the welfare of those above. Only the last line is slightly puzzling: _Is our kinsman with you? I have not seen him,_ it reads.

By this time, he's to the cells of the main group of dwarves, and he walks slowly down the corridor, peering into each cell and looking for a slighter figure, dark-haired and short-bearded. Eventually he spots one — one of those, he recalls, who cursed at the warden when they passed by earlier — and steps closer to the bars, whispers, "Dwarf. Are you called Kili?"

The dwarf's eyes open wide; he sees them flash in the darkness. "Who asks?" he replies, and Legolas thinks there is fear in his voice, hidden beneath the challenge.

"If you are, I carry a message from your brother," Legolas answers, and holds out the note, and the dwarf stares for a moment, seemingly dumbfounded, then moves like lightning across the cell to snatch it from his hand.

Legolas stands and watches, for a moment, as the dwarf — Kili, obviously — crouches over his cell's one lamp to read; then he spots the shake of the dwarf's shoulders, hears the faint hitch in his breath, and he turns away and interests himself in the stonework on the other side of the corridor, because Thranduil's attempts to teach him diplomacy have not been _entirely_ unsuccessful.

He still listens, though; after a minute or two, he hears Kili's breathing steady, and then the dwarf whispers from behind him, voice rough, "Would you carry a message back to him? I'd like to answer his questions. And... he ought to know that I'm all right."

"Of course," Legolas says, and finds the pencil again, hands it over. "I don't have any more paper—"

"I'll write on the back," Kili says, and does. He writes slower than his brother, and in a messier hand, but he doesn't need to be told not to use dwarf-runes, and he seems to have planned out most of his message in advance; Legolas hasn't been waiting long when the dwarf crosses back over to the bars and presses the note into his hand, saying, "Take this back to Fili. And — thank you."

Legolas leaves without answering — he doesn't know what to say, really — and stops in the stairway to read the note. The main body of it reads, _I'm all right, and so are the others here. I have heard nothing of our elder kinsman or our smallest friend, but between we eight and you four, the rest of us are all accounted for. We are agreed to say nothing unless you think otherwise._ Then there is a single line at the bottom of the page, written in smaller letters, that's been firmly crossed out; he squints at it, makes out _I am so glad to_ at the beginning, and guesses that, whatever the rest of the line read, it was rejected as too sentimental.

He is halfway down the stairs, thinking to bring the message to the yellow-haired dwarf (Fili, his brother called him) at once and then be done with this dangerous exercise, when there is the sound of footsteps in the corridor below and he is forced to bolt for the safety of his rooms.

He doesn't go back that night. Even if he dared risk it, there's no opportunity; not ten minutes after he slips back into his bedchamber, a page appears at his door to summon him back to the throne room, and he spends the rest of the evening at his father's elbow, watching and listening as Thranduil addresses several subjects' petitions, hears the report of the party sent to deal with the spiders, and, over supper, begins the planning of a feast in several weeks' time.

They discuss the dwarves only briefly, between other topics. Legolas is careful of his words; he learned long ago the value of being thought a spoiled, callow princeling, and he makes it his goal tonight to leave Thranduil thinking that his son has little interest in the prisoners, even that he found them boring. He does learn one valuable thing, though: there is another dwarf held in the palace, one who was captured alone, earlier than the rest, and who by his dress is above them all in station. Thranduil puts forth the idea that he may be the leader of the company; Legolas thinks, _'our elder kinsman,'_ and resolves to bring this news to Fili along with his brother's note.

Only as he is retiring does he add, as if it's an afterthought, "One or two of them seemed hurt. Perhaps the healers should attend them, if you mean to keep them hostage against their leader."

"Perhaps," Thranduil replies, his tone thoughtful, and Legolas goes to bed that night hopeful that the dwarves will be properly tended to by morning.

* * *

It's two days before Legolas is able to get back to the dungeons. When he does, he finds Fili pacing, circling the walls of his cell like a caged wildcat, a fresh bandage around his right arm. When he spots Legolas, he stops and comes to face the bars, gripping them with both hands. "Do you have something for me?" he asks, just loud enough to be heard.

In answer, Legolas holds out the scrap of paper. The dwarf takes it cautiously, as if it's a treasure, and steps back to read; Legolas waits until he's folding it back up to say, "There's something else. The two companions of yours he mentions — I may know where one of them is."

Fili's eyes flash, then go dark and guarded again before Legolas can guess at what the dwarf is thinking. "Tell me what you know," he says.

"There is another dwarf held here," Legolas begins, "separate from your party. He was captured in the wood, like you, but a day or two earlier, and alone. He is hostile to the guards, uncooperative. And... I have not seen him myself, but they say he is dressed much like the rest of you — like a dwarf of the Ered Luin — but in finer fabrics, richer colors."

Fili hisses between his teeth, obviously dismayed by this news. "Yes," he says after a moment, "that sounds like my uncle. He was separated from us the night that we saw your people feasting in a clearing. I'm glad to know he is not still wandering lost in the forest, at least, but..." He fixes his gaze on Legolas. "I don't suppose you would—"

"I don't know where he is," Legolas cuts him off; he had anticipated this request, but Thranduil keeps his secrets close, and this solitary dwarf prisoner is a secret indeed. "And even if I did, I don't think I could risk it. He is guarded much more closely than you are; my father thinks he is the captain of your band."

"Hmm," Fili says, and then is silent for a time. By the look on his face, there is more he wants to say, but he doesn't seem to know how to begin. Eventually, he says, "Your father — you spoke of him this way before, as if he holds some power over what is done with the prisoners here. Is he..."

"My father is King of the Woodland Realm," Legolas says, drawing himself upright as befits the statement; then he takes a step back and waits for the dwarf to curse him.

Somewhat to his surprise, Fili's only response is to step closer to the bars of his cell, head cocked in puzzlement. He watches Legolas for a few moments, as if studying him; then he asks, "Why are you doing this? Why offer kindness to your father's prisoners?"

Legolas has no good answer. Eventually, he settles on, "Because you told the warden he didn't frighten you, I think. I was impressed — he frightens _me_."

Fili gives a little snort, as if he doesn't believe that, but he doesn't press any further, either. Instead, he hands the crumpled note back through the bars and says, "Burn that, will you? And..." Another moment's pause; then the dwarf seems to make up his mind. "And come back and speak to me, if—"

"If I hear any more word of your uncle," Legolas finishes for him.

Fili grins, teeth glinting white in the darkness. "If you've a mind to," he says, "news or no news."

* * *

He goes back at the end of the week, when he hasn't heard any more word of the dwarves' leader but can no longer deny that he's _wishing_ for word, for an excuse to visit the prisoners again. He has been attentive to the schedule of the guards, and he knows the time to choose so that he needn't worry _too_ much about being discovered, and when that time comes he slips away down the secret tunnel once again.

This time he bypasses the apple-barrel and brings two small meat pies from the kitchens, along with the paper and pencil — taking two is twice the risk, especially from a small batch like this one, but he suspects that, if he only brings one, both dwarves will insist he give it to their brother and neither of them will end up eating at all.

Once again, he visits Fili first, carries a short message from him to Kili. This time the note is mainly to share the revelation that their uncle is a prisoner as well, although it begins _I agree we must tell the elves nothing_ — Legolas can't help laughing when he reads that, and Fili grins and says, "I know, but you understand."

Kili's reply is only that he agrees and will wait for more news and Great Mahal, is that a meat pie, give that here, you know you're not half bad for an elf; Legolas doesn't bother having him write it down (especially the bit about the pie), just walks back to Fili's cell and relays it himself. Then he leans back against the earthen wall opposite and says, "You invited me to come and speak with you, but I don't know what to speak of."

"Start with this," Fili says. "Why are you here? A truer answer, this time."

"You didn't like the last one?" Legolas asks, feigning hurt. "It _was_ true, you know, at least partly. How about this, then: I've never seen my father so angry as the night you were captured, and I wanted to see what you could have done to have such an effect on him." And this, too, is at least a partial truth; he is long accustomed to Thranduil's displeasure, which is icy and thin-lipped and largely silent, but if he has ever seen his father in a _rage_ before it is lost in distant memory. And if it doesn't quite explain anything beyond his first visit, or why he should have taken a fondness to the dwarves, well, that's his own business.

Fili shrugs, tries to look innocent, but there's a spark of amusement in his eyes. "We only said we preferred to keep our business private," he says. "How were we to know he'd take it so badly?"

"He's not used to being defied," Legolas says, and then adds with a laugh, "Not since I was a child, anyway," and that leads them to trading stories of their troublesome youths for a while; when he goes, it's with a smile and a promise to come again when he can.

* * *

On his next visit, several days later, he does have a bit of news — according to the warden, the spirits of the thirteenth dwarf, the one held alone, have suddenly brightened. The warden is outraged; he had believed the dwarf was about to crack, to reveal the reason for his party's journey through the Greenwood, and now the prisoner has clammed up again and the warden suspects his own guards of revealing that the other dwarves are captive, too, and that they are safe and well-kept for now.

Fili doesn't seem entirely surprised by this news, and Legolas wonders whether there really is someone else carrying messages among the dwarves — one of the guards, or a suggestible servant, perhaps? But he forgets about it when Fili asks, _again_ , why he's there.

"How truthful do you want your answer this time?" Legolas answers, a bit snappishly; he may have taken a liking to the dwarf, but he has answered this question twice already, as honestly as he cares to, and if Fili intends to call him a liar he won't stand for it. But Fili just shrugs and says cheerfully, "Surprise me"; it has the tone of a challenge, and Legolas resolves to do his best.

"This one will be a long story," he cautions; Fili sits down on his cot and folds his hands in his lap, all theatrical attentiveness, like a child at his lessons, and Legolas rolls his eyes. "You see," he begins, thinking fast to come up with a suitable tale, "you remind me of someone. Many years ago, when I was only just of age, a band of dwarf tinkers passed through the Greenwood..."

He goes on for some time, spinning a tale of an entire family of dwarves, from grandparents to infant children, welcomed gladly by the Wood-elves ("They were friendlier times," he adds by way of explanation, since that part does seem a _bit_ implausible) and made guests at the palace for many weeks. Then he brings in the key character, a daughter of the family, with hair like burnished gold and a laugh like birdsong, and their short-lived but deeply felt love.

The story clearly doesn't convince Fili (and, to be honest, it wasn't meant to), but when Legolas names the dwarf-maid, it does make him laugh heartily, nearly doubled over, covering his mouth lest the guards should hear. "I'm sorry," he says eventually, wiping his eyes, "I suppose I shouldn't make fun, just in case it _is_ true. But if it is, your Mili kept quite a secret from you indeed! Can't you tell a woman's name from a man's?"

Legolas considers that for a second, and then laughs himself. "No," he admits, "I suppose I can't. Not dwarf-names, anyway. But I expect you're no better with elf-names. Tell me, which is my friend Tauriel?"

That quickly devolves into a guessing game, which ends with both of them red-faced with stifled laughter, Legolas holding onto the bars of the cell to keep upright. "You know," he says eventually, sobering, "I _am_ glad to have met you. This may not satisfy you as a reason, any more than the others have, but... I'm grateful for the excitement."

Fili stops laughing, too, suddenly; he draws himself back from the bars and stares at Legolas for a long, silent moment, and there's something strange and dark in his eyes. "Does it grow so boring, then," he says eventually, "to be a prince, and to want for nothing?"

"To be the spare prince, yes," Legolas answers, somewhat more honestly than he meant to; he hears the dwarf's bitter tone mirrored in his own voice. "To be cosseted, and watched every moment, and trusted with nothing, and to want for freedom."

"You know _nothing_ of want," the dwarf says sharply. "Go back to your silks and feather-beds, _princeling_ , and do not visit me again."

"As you wish it," Legolas says, stung, and leaves.

He stops at Kili's cell briefly on the way back, only long enough to say that Fili is well but not to expect any more messages; then he sweeps away down the corridor, chin held high, all regal bearing and not-in-the-least-wounded pride. It's spoiled only slightly when, halfway back to the staircase, he stumbles over something and nearly falls flat on his face.

(Strange, though: when he looks to see what tripped him, there's nothing there.)

* * *

For a week, Legolas avoids the thought of the dwarven prisoners, tries to forget he ever knew about them. But he can't help being alert to the murmurs, which travel from the dungeon guards through the network of palace servants and eventually to his own retinue, that something strange is happening in the dungeons. Food has disappeared from the kitchens (he finds that worrying, until it becomes clear they're talking about more than a meat pie or two); things left lying around are found moved, or vanish altogether; the dwarves no longer complain of their separation, and the bolder among them have begun to taunt the guards with details of palace life they can't possibly know. Meanwhile, the warden has grown increasingly paranoid, and every day brings a new accusation — against one of the guards, or the servant who sweeps the dungeons, or the junior cook who brings the prisoners their meals.

Given all that, it really shouldn't come as _that_ much of a surprise when he's woken one morning by a pounding at his door, followed by a contingent of guards bursting in without waiting for a response.

He takes it as a threat at first, an invasion or a coup, and he's out of bed, crouched in a corner with his long knife at the ready, before they even make it through the door. But the elves who enter are not armed, and they wear the standards of his father's personal guard; he doesn't drop the knife, but he does relax, just slightly, and demands, "What do you mean by this? You interrupt my rest."

Then the prison-warden enters, behind the guards, and says loudly, "Why is he not bound yet? Do not let him waste time; he is wanted at once in the throne room."

Legolas's blood runs cold, and now he does throw the knife down, draws himself up tall and straight. "You _dare_ ," he says, and is surprised by the strength (and the chill) in his own voice; there can be no doubt it is a Prince of the Woodland Realm who speaks.

"The charge is serious, my lord," one of the guards says; her tone is apologetic, but she moves toward him nonetheless, a coil of rope in her hands. "The King decrees you be brought before him."

"What charge?" he demands, though of course he knows — the warden must have guessed, somehow, who it was that carried the dwarves' messages. ( _Guessed or been told_ , Legolas thinks, and swallows a curse; he should have known better than to trust the dwarf, and now his foolishness has been repaid.) The charge he faces will be treason, and worse yet, it is a charge he cannot refute.

The guards do bind him, in the end, tying his wrists before him; then he is taken through the winding corridors to the throne room, the warden leading the way and seeming to choose the most public path at every turning. At last, he is brought before his father, directed where to stand. Most of the guards withdraw, although the warden stays, presumably to speak as witness against him.

Thranduil gazes down at him from the throne; he does not seem angry, or shocked, or even disappointed, and Legolas feels a spike of fury — his father sits in judgment of him as if he is _bored_ , as if he has expected this day for a hundred years. _I will not be shamed this way_ , he thinks, and he lifts his chin in defiance and says, before he is invited to speak, "You requested my presence, my lord?"

That does widen Thranduil's eyes for a moment, and Legolas is grimly glad of it — if he is to be named a traitor, to face imprisonment or exile, he _will_ force his father to acknowledge what he is doing. But Thranduil has been a king for many centuries, and he easily schools his face to calm again before he says, "You stand accused of high crimes; it will only go harder for you if you are insolent." Then he turns to the warden and beckons him forward, says, "Let us hear your tale."

"Of course," the warden says, bowing deeply. "My lord, you know from my reports that messages have somehow been passed between the dwarven prisoners, and that we have sought the traitor responsible for nearly a fortnight. That traitor at last stands before you. This elf—" he says it without respect, with a contemptuous flick of his fingers; Legolas bristles, but forces himself not to show it — "has been seen loitering around the dungeons when he had no business there, and we have heard his voice and his laughter in the corridors. And there is this note, which was found hidden in one of the dwarves' cells."

"Show me," Thranduil says, and the warden steps forward, hands him a much-crumpled slip of paper. Legolas watches closely, curious despite himself — it can't be any of the notes he carried, as he burned them all himself; did the dwarves beg paper from someone else, just so that they might incriminate him? It seems a bit far to go, but then, he does seem to have made Fili very angry.

Thranduil studies the note for a moment, holding it between thumb and forefinger as though it might be infectious. Then his eyes flick to Legolas and he reads aloud, " 'At least we know all our party is alive and safe. We have your princely friend to thank for that.' What is the meaning of this?"

Legolas shrugs, though his heart is beating fast. If the dwarves have not actually named him, if there is no more compelling evidence than this... he thinks quickly, but keeps outwardly still, calm. "Only that there is a traitor among us," he says, "which we already knew. For to the eyes of this dwarvish rabble, what elf of your court would not appear as a prince?"

Thranduil only inclines his head, as if in thought. Then he turns back to the warden and says, "It may be flattery and lies, but he speaks rightly — this is little proof. Are there any among the prisoners who will attest to his guilt?"

"I shall have them brought up," the warden says, "one at a time. First the one in whose cell we found the note, I think; his is the hallway where we have heard elvish speech and laughter." He turns and speaks quietly to the guards, and two of them disappear.

It's only a few moments before they return — perhaps the prisoners have been moved closer, to await their turn as witnesses. Fili walks between them, bound at the wrists, as Legolas is, but with chains rather than light rope; there is a dark, day-old bruise at his temple, likely dealt out when the note was discovered in his cell, and fresher marks on his cheek and lip suggest that he didn't come quietly to the throne room.

"Bring him closer," Thranduil directs, and Fili glares, spitting something in Dwarvish that has to be a curse, as he's dragged forward. The elf-king ignores the outburst, simply waiting in silence until it's over, and then says with a wave toward Legolas, "Dwarf. Do you know this elf?"

Fili gives him a glance, then looks back to the king and says with a smirk, "What would you give for an answer?" It's all Legolas can do not to grimace openly — that is about the most foolish thing the dwarf could have said — and he's not in the least surprised when, at the slight motion of Thranduil's hand, one of the guards steps a bit closer and gives Fili a ringing slap across the face.

"I shall ask again," Thranduil says as the dwarf shakes his head. "Do you know this elf?"

Fili glares, but half-heartedly; he looks a bit dazed, and he answers straightforwardly this time, "I've seen him before. Your guard-chief brought him to tour our cells, I think."

"And since then?" Thranduil asks, his face open, as if it is a matter of simple curiosity. "I am told that was not his only visit to my dungeons."

There's a long hesitation, and then Fili says, "Aye. He visited me again that night, and asked if I was ill or hurt — he had noticed my dark mood, when the warden brought him by. I told him no, that I was fine."

"And he left, then?"

"No," Fili says, slowly. "He pressed me for the truth, and against my instincts I told him: that I was not hurt, but lonesome, and worried for my brother, who had been separated from me." Legolas forces himself not to stare at the dwarf, but his heart is in his throat; Fili's story has been honest so far, and if he intends to go on, to turn Legolas in, this is the moment for it. All he has to do is continue, to say _That was when he carried the first message for us._

Instead, he gives Legolas a long look, then says, with convincing bitterness in his voice, "He laughed at me, and _then_ he left. He has done the same several times since."

It's all Legolas can do not to show his shock; he concentrates on keeping his gaze level, his face calm. Even so, he can't help an instant's glance toward Fili; their eyes meet, and for a split second he sees through the dwarf's put-on anger, recognizes a flash of warmth and good humor in his eyes. Then it's gone, and Legolas turns his attention back to his father, who seems to be considering the dwarf's answer; after a long moment, he turns to the warden and says, "The voices and laughter you heard — could this explain them?"

"We heard no details," the warden admits, though it's clear it pains him to do so. "It could be."

The king nods, seemingly deep in thought. "We will hear from the rest of the prisoners," he says after a moment. "Have them brought in, one at a time. And do not allow them to speak among themselves."

Many of the dwarves show signs, as Fili did, that they didn't make the job of bringing them upstairs easy for the guards; most of them appear puzzled by the proceedings, and say, more or less truthfully, that they have never seen Legolas before. Fili's nearest neighbor, a dark-haired dwarf with a long mustache, says, "I think he has walked down my corridor a few times, but then, one elf looks much like another to me," with a shrug and a smile, and one of those held on the upper level asks, "Is he the one the warden brought through, when we were first captured?", but that's all.

The only one Legolas is truly concerned about is Kili, but as it turns out, he needn't have worried. Kili is one of the last to be brought in, his nose bloodied and his expression mutinous; Fili makes a faint, urgent sound when he's brought in, and brings his hands up as if to pull away from his guards, but the gesture is aborted, just a flutter of fingers, and a look from Kili seems to still him. Then Kili turns back to the king, still glowering, and listens to his question, and claims not to have seen Legolas since the night the warden led him through the dungeons, and is shuffled off against the wall with the rest of the prisoners.

Once they have all spoken, Thranduil sits in silence for a long while, hands steepled before his face. Then he dismisses the guards and the prisoners, and the warden with them, and beckons Legolas forward, all the way up the steps to the throne; they are alone.

"You are no traitor," he says, very softly, and for the first time today Legolas sees a glimpse of emotion in his father's face, a momentary flicker of gladness and relief. He understands, suddenly, what he should have understood before — it is not the first time he has seen Thranduil use coldness as a mask, a shield, and he himself has used defiance in the same way even during this trial — and the tightness of anger in his chest eases as his father goes on, "Give me your hands; let me unbind you. I cannot let you go entirely unpunished — you have been insolent before your king, and you have interfered with my prisoners — but you are not a prisoner, and I will not have you appear as one."

In the end, his sentence is to be confined to his chambers for a week, until the harvest feast; after that, he will be permitted to roam the palace, but not to leave it without express permission. He accepts this punishment, knowing it is lighter than he has any right to expect, and walks freely back to his rooms, and does not complain when two guards take up their station outside his door.

It's a boring week; Legolas passes the time reading, mainly, and wondering what the dwarves are doing, and whether they really do have a second secret messenger. Then, on the night of the feast — the night his confinement is broken — he returns to his chambers late and tipsy, and at last sees proof that they do.

The dwarves' messenger, somehow, has slipped a note under his door.

_I am sorry for the way we parted_ , it reads. _My brother reminds me I have much to thank you for, and of course he is right. Had we met under better circumstances, I would have liked to be your friend. I know you took a risk in showing us kindness; I hope you have not suffered too greatly for it. Farewell._ It is signed with the name-rune that he recognizes, now, as Fili's.

The next morning, he hears from the shocked guards that the dwarves are gone and the warden disgraced, and thinks, _Farewell indeed, friend Fili, and safe journeys._

* * *

The next weeks are a flurry of news, strange reports coming from Esgaroth nearly every day. First they hear that the dwarves have turned up there, somehow; then that their leader, the well-dressed one who until recently inhabited the Wood-elves' deepest cell, is none other than Thorin Oakenshield, grandson of the last King Under the Mountain, and that he rides to reclaim his throne; then that Smaug has awoken, laid waste to the town, and been slain by an archer there.

That last messenger also says there has been no sign of the dwarves since they departed for the mountain; it is presumed they are dead, and the treasures of Erebor left unguarded. Thranduil certainly will not let that opportunity pass by, and he rides out with a company of soldiers and healers, both to aid the Men of Esgaroth in rebuilding and to investigate the mountain, as soon as his elder son's regiment can be recalled. (Legolas sulks briefly -- first because he is not to ride out with his father, and then because, yet again, he is not trusted to take charge in the king's absence -- but brightens as soon as his brother arrives; they have always been close, and if he's honest, he must admit that Arasson makes a better regent than he would anyway.)

A few days after Thranduil goes, more news comes from the east, this time of a great battle -- not against the dwarves, as was half-expected, but fighting alongside them against a great host of goblins and wargs. The messenger was sent just as the battle began, and can give them no news of its outcome; Legolas spends two sleepless nights in the throne room, at Arasson's right hand, desperately hoping that he is still standing beside his brother and not his _king_ , until at last a second messenger arrives with the news that the battle is won and Thranduil unhurt, and they both breathe more easily.

(Along with this news, they hear that Thorin Oakenshield is slain, and that a dwarf of the Iron Hills has taken the throne. Legolas feels a pang of worry at that, but he doesn't dare ask after Fili or Kili by name; besides, surely this Dain Ironfoot is a close kinsman, one whose claim to rule is stronger than that of a barely-grown nephew of an exiled prince.)

It's another week before Thranduil and his company arrive home, and they are not alone; the wizard Gandalf, whom Legolas has heard of but never met, rides at the king's side, and with him is a small, strange creature calling itself a _hobbit_ , which according to rumor was an ally of the dwarves. They feast that night, in celebration, and all the talk at the high table is of politics and negotiations; Legolas is dreadfully bored, and makes an excuse to slip away at the first opportunity, and he is not entirely surprised to see the hobbit follow after him.

Halfway across the great hall, it catches him by the sleeve and says, "Excuse me — I mean, forgive me — but you are Legolas, aren't you?"

"I am," he says, so surprised that his manners desert him; there have been no formal introductions between them as yet, so how can the hobbit know his name? After a moment he recovers himself, giving a slight bow, and offers his best guess: "Do you know me by my father's stories? If so, I must tell you they are mostly false."

The hobbit laughs at that, and says, "It's the way of fathers everywhere, I suppose. No, in fact, I..." He trails off, glances around, and continues rather more warily, "You and I have a friend in common."

_'Our smallest friend,'_ Legolas remembers suddenly — is it possible? Indeed, the hobbit is even smaller than a dwarf, hardly standing as tall as his waist. But if the creature was a member of the dwarven company, how did it pass through the Greenwood without being caught, and rejoin its friends again in Esgaroth?

It dawns on him that he is staring at the hobbit, and has been for some time. "A friend," he echoes, somewhat foolishly, and then he makes up his mind and says, "Please, come with me. I would speak to you privately."

There's no chance of leaving the feast entirely, not without being noticed and talked of. Instead, Legolas leads the hobbit to one of the round side-rooms, furnished with couches and rich rugs and separated from the great hall by hanging curtains, that serve as havens for those seeking a bit of quiet; once he unties the curtain and lets it fall across the doorway, they can hardly hear the noise of the hall outside.

The two stand in silence for a moment, watching each other; Legolas has so many questions he can't decide where to start. Then the hobbit startles, as if he's just remembered something, and says, "I beg your pardon — I ought to have given you my name, when I guessed yours. Bilbo Baggins, at your service."

"Thank you," Legolas says, which isn't quite a proper response, but then, he is somewhat preoccupied. "Please, this friend we share — you mean Fili, don't you? You must have been their other messenger, the one who brought me his note."

"I was," Bilbo says, taking a seat on the nearest couch; he looks tired, suddenly, as if the journey back from the battlefield has just now caught up to him, and it gives Legolas another pang of worry.

That is enough to make up his mind where to begin; he says, hesitantly, "We have not had much news of the battle here. I have heard that Thorin Oakenshield is dead, and a new king crowned..."

"Yes," Bilbo says, "Dain Ironfoot. He is a distant cousin, as I understand it, from another branch of the family." There's a long pause; when Legolas looks up, he can see the hobbit's throat working, the shine of unshed tears in his eyes, and he knows what he will hear even before the hobbit says, "Thorin's heirs — Fili and Kili both — fell defending him."

"I see," Legolas says softly, and the rest of his questions are forgotten; they sit together in the quiet for a while longer, and then part, the hobbit back to Gandalf's side and Legolas to his rooms, where he does not sleep.

In the morning, Gandalf and Bilbo leave, amid much fanfare. To Thranduil's amusement, the hobbit insists on presenting gifts to his hosts — a necklace of silver and pearls for the king, a filigreed circlet for the elder prince, and for Legolas a strange gift: two small golden clasps, each one etched with a pattern of interlocking squares.

"They are to hold the ends of braids," Bilbo explains, seeing his puzzlement. "They were found in the treasure of the mountain by... a friend of mine, and I thought that, well, that you might like them, is all."

"Thank you," Legolas says with a bow — _for the news, and for bringing me his final note_ , he means, as well as _for this gift_ — and hopes that no one is looking too closely at his face.

He puts in a thin braid over each ear that night, using the clasps to hold them, and studies the effect in a mirror. It's a bit strange — the gold, to be honest, doesn't suit his coloring, and the design etched into the metal is unmistakably dwarvish and looks peculiar alongside an elvish face — but after a moment, he decides he quite likes it.

* * *

"You were less tender to us," the dwarf Gloin says sharply, interrupting his tale of the Gollum-creature's escape, and Legolas startles; the memories have faded over the many years since, and it's only now that he recognizes this dwarf as one of those held in the dungeons so long ago, his cell not far from Fili's.

"Now come!" Gandalf says, stepping forward to intervene, but Legolas puts up a hand to stop him and turns to bow to the dwarf.

"It is true," he says. "We did not treat your party with kindness. But there are those of us who regret it; who would have, had we the power."

The dwarf glances down and to the side; Legolas follows his gaze, and finds that the dwarf's eye rests on his braid-clasp, one of those given to him so long ago — _found amid the treasure by a friend_ , he thinks, and is more certain than ever who it was that found them.

When Gloin returns his gaze to Legolas's face, there is surprise in it, and a new gentleness. "Aye," he says, "and there were those who did show us some small kindness, where they could. Let it never be said I am ungrateful for that." He rises, and returns Legolas's bow, and nudges his son beside him to do the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Interesting fact: there is no canonical statement as to whether Legolas is Thranduil's heir. So I say he isn't! I've made up an elder brother for him, Arasson, whose name as far as I can tell means "stag" or "buck".
> 
> This is a somewhat cleaned-up and lightly edited version of the story originally posted on hobbit_kink — fixed some errors (like miscounting the dwarves. Whoops), improved some clumsy sentences, and so forth.


End file.
